The Herald's Heart (2 page)

What was he thinking? The bright blue eyes had blinked. The berry lips had gasped. She’d even blushed. Whoever she was, that head belonged to a very live woman. He settled back into the saddle and hauled his mount’s head around. With as much speed as he thought safe, given the lack of visibility, Talon hurried after the dying wail, heartened when he heard it rise again, for that meant he was nearing his quarry.

He moved along, pursuing the noise and the woman until his horse once again refused to move. What was wrong with the beast? Talon growled. He could either stay with the horse and lose the maid, or follow the maid and ... And what? Stumble blind over a cliff into the sea and lose not only his horse but his life? Nay, only a madman would go wandering around unknown ground in a fog this thick, which made the dunces back in the alehouse look very wise indeed.

Cold chattered Talon’s teeth, and damp soaked his clothing. He needed shelter. No doubt that’s what his mount had been trying to tell him. He could hear his good friend and fellow herald Amis Du Grace laughing in agreement that Talon’s horse was smarter than its rider. He shook his head—once again single-minded determination had led him into trouble. Still, the trouble would be worth it, if he could serve the Earl of Hawksedge even a small amount of the anguish the man had served a six-year-old boy tossed from his home and labeled a bastard.

Talon dismounted and moved to his steed’s head. The animal needed a stern lecture on obeying its rider. The fog became darker just ahead of him. “I’ve had enough nonsense for one day,” he said, whether to the horse or the fog was hard to tell. “There are no such things as ghosts or disembodied heads that blink and blush.” He lengthened his stride, hoping to pull his mount forward, and ran smack into black stone.

He’d found Hawksedge Keep.

“Hell and blast the devil, that hurt.” Talon’s nose throbbed. Stinging pain attacked his chin and forehead. His shoulder ached where his horse had bitten him, taking exception when Talon’s backside landed on its hoof. Fortunately, the destrier reacted with only that one nip, standing its ground with relative calm, rather than trampling Talon to death in irritation.

Which direction would lead him to the keep’s gates?

Now that he’d stopped cursing and held still, he could hear the quiet rush of the sea off to his right. Logic dictated that the bulk of the keep must be to his left. Talon set off, reins in one hand, the other palm pressed against the keep’s wall to guide him. He wanted a stable for his horse, warm food in his belly, and a soft pillow upon which to lay his weary head, in that order.

Soon enough, the stone surface gave way to wood. Talon examined the area with his hands. Too narrow for the main gate, he must have found a postern. ’Twas tall and wide enough to admit both him and his horse. He located the latch, praying that it wasn’t locked. The latch grated, and the gate swung open. Thank St. Swithun. Talon marched in, towing his horse behind him.

The fog was less thick in what must be the bailey, but no light shone from window or lamp. The keep appeared to be deserted as the villagers claimed. He closed the gate. Not even the clack of wood on stone echoed off the walls. ’Twas passing strange. Fog or no, the animals of the keep should make some noise. None of the sights, sounds, or smells expected in an occupied keep came to him. He cast uneasy glances about, seeing nothing but hazy images.

Talon’s stomach growled. He sniffed, a little surprised to find no scent of bread or meat cooking for a meal. He should have known better than to expect hot food. Yet the very air smelled wrong. No ordinary odors mixed with the muted seawater tang. No stench of manure or the damp fur of living creatures. No pungent smoke of a blacksmith’s fire. The place was lifeless as a tomb.
Surely, ’tis my imagination that creates a faint whiff of death on the air.

Keeping his free hand on the inside wall, he walked until he found the stables. There, he gathered a bundle of straw from under foot and struck a spark with his own flint and steel, prepared to stamp out the badly needed light if the flame threatened to blaze beyond control. On a shelf by the stable door, luck blessed him with a glimmer of glass reflecting the small flame. He’d found a lantern, one that had a good wick and supply of oil. With the flame safely transferred, Talon cared for his horse.

Then, exhausted with the strains of travel, he mounted the stairs to the keep’s central tower. He still hadn’t seen or heard sign of any man or beast other than himself and his horse. Having searched the main rooms and found nothing human or otherwise, Talon ignored the gnawing in his belly and chose the solar bedroom. From the quality of the furnishings, he guessed it to be the earl’s chamber and was entirely too tired to care. The earl would be well served when he returned to find his despised son occupying the lord’s chamber and bed. Talon stripped, laid his sword atop his clothing then settled himself on the soft ticking of the huge bed. Even damp and musty, the bed offered more comfort than he’d seen in days. Since there was none to say him nay, he intended to take full advantage of the opportunity to sleep between linen and fur.

Here in the solar, the stink of decay and neglect wasn’t quite so bad. He lay down, too spent to search out wood and light a fire or even close the door. He doubted even a ghost would wake him. How long had Hawksedge Keep lain abandoned? Yawning, he closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be soon enough to seek out answers to the keep’s strange emptiness.

A blast of frigid, rain-damp air woke him. A scent ten times worse than any privy followed swiftly on the chill. Men who died in battle smelled better. Talon gagged, came alert, and slid from the bed in one silent motion. He crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, ignoring the cold of the floor. He closed his hand around his sword’s hilt. His eyes searched the gloom.

In front of the solar doorway hovered a slim column of white. For the second time that night, Talon felt fear slither down his spine. Were the villagers right? Was Hawksedge Keep haunted?

His gaze narrowed, focused completely on the apparition that swayed within the opening. He inhaled deep and slow, then choked on the nauseating scent, and barely restrained a cough. A shuffle broke the silence. Shoes! He was right. That pale figure was no ghost. But who was it? And why pretend to haunt an abandoned keep?

Talon held his breath and waited, certain he remained undetected on the far side of the bed. His muscles coiled, ready to spring at the first sign of discovery. But the shoe-wearing figure turned away.

He rose silently and followed it down the hallway. The intruder paused near the passage’s end. Talon wished now he had explored the entire keep earlier. The mock ghost had the advantage of knowing the territory. Allowing an opponent an advantage was never a good idea. However, Talon had surprise on his side, and weight as well from the rail-thin look of the intruder.

The figure paused, stooped, then straightened. Talon halted. Steel snicked on flint. A light flared. The ghost lifted a lantern, opened a door, and disappeared. A faint glow from the lantern spilled into the hall, telling Talon the door remained ajar. Cat-footed, he sped to the opening and peered around the edge.

The intruder stood before the far wall. The lantern rested on a small table. A pale arm lifted and fell. A small chink sounded.

Prying with some tool at the wall stones? Were there secrets within the keep’s walls? Talon moved over the threshold, hoping to get close enough to see what the false spirit was about. His raised sword clanked against some object.

The figure turned, threw an object at Talon, and leaped at him in the same instant. Talon dodged the missile and braced for impact. His movement opened a narrow space. With robe lifted, the intruder sped past him, flying down the corridor.

“Nay,” Talon roared his frustration. He pursued.

Halfway to the stairs, he caught the robe’s hem and jerked. The cloth parted just above the ghostly knees. The intruder stumbled but regained balance and ran on, long, white legs aflash. Talon launched himself at the retreating form, desperate to get the upper hand and stop the invader’s escape.

• • •

Larkin swung the small mason’s hammer and hit the chisel she’d positioned in the cracked mortar. She’d left the bucket of offal just outside the door. She heartily disliked the stuff, but it was an essential part of the disguise that kept everyone away from the keep. The hammer swung again, and a chunk of mortar flew past her shoulder. She was making progress and had every hope she would soon find her family’s marriage box. Satisfaction settled the nerves that had churned in her stomach from the instant the fog had parted to show a man’s face.

It had been a close call.

She’d held her breath, listening to the clop of hooves sounding ever closer behind her. She heard nothing save that cursed squeaky axle. Were it not for the ill-fitted beam’s grinding wail, she and her unshod pony might have passed by the stranger and never seen him, nor he her. Now the lack of grease might lead the man straight to her. She hadn’t dared to breathe until she knew she’d escaped him. No pursuit sounded in the mist.

“Hell and blast the devil, that hurt,” from out of the miasma, a deep masculine voice had sworn.

What happened? She had shifted, trying to see behind her. The fog shrouded everything, except for the string of curses that faded even as they echoed from every direction, but she saw nothing and no one. She smiled then sobered. Whatever occupied the man, she was safe—for the time being.

A full year carting for the abbey in the area around Hawksedge Keep had told her where she was without having to see. The grassy verge she had followed paralleled the keep’s walls, until the mortared stones cornered and the path went on toward the cliffs. ’Twas those cliffs that were her immediate, though not ultimate, goal this night.

No this night, as she had every night for the past month, she donned a concealing white cloak and entered Hawksedge Keep through one of many caves in the cliff side that arced along the coast. That particular cave led to the keep’s secret passage and allowed her to enter unwatched so she could search the building for her family’s marriage box. Because she was the oldest—and only—married female in her mother’s family, the box belonged to her now. The large box, almost the size of a chest, contained in one compartment locks of hair, cut from each bride on her wedding day, tied with ribbons from each wedding dress. In a second compartment were stored copies of all the marriage documents for the past hundred years. The box was handed down from mother to daughter and held the proof that Larkin was who she claimed to be. With the box in her possession, she could reclaim the Rosham home and title, then seek justice for her family’s murder. The villagers would cease calling her Liar Larkin. The evil, conniving Earl of Hawksedge would be forced to acknowledge her and admit he had ordered the murder of her entire family. All she had to do was find the marriage box that had to be hidden somewhere in the vast levels, rooms, and hallways of Hawksedge Keep. Unless the earl had destroyed it.

She shook her head and continued to chisel mortar from a section of stone that was obviously more recently laid than the rest of the walls in the room. She refused to believe the box and its contents would be destroyed. The earl needed the marriage box as much as she did, for it was proof that, through his supposedly dead wife, he owned her childhood home, Rosewood Castle, and all its lands.

Thank the Madonna that the marriage to the earl was by proxy and had never been consummated. Larkin moved the chisel. Once she had the box and proved her identity, she would reclaim her birthright. Then she could petition for an annulment and plead her case for justice to the king. Finally, she would be free to live the peaceful, independent life she’d longed for since the day she’d sat vigil in the dirt and bushes mere steps from her mother’s dead body.

She forced all thought of her mother and father from her head. The time would come when she would need the fury those horrifying memories created, but not now. Now she needed to remain cool and aware of her surroundings. The earl could reappear as easily as he disappeared. Then his servants would fill the keep, and she would have to restrict her searches to occasions when she knew she would not be discovered. Heavens, visitors unaware of the earl’s absence could arrive at any time. Was that what had brought the stranger to the area? If so, he’d been going the wrong way. She chuckled to herself. Hawksedge Keep had been less than a yard behind him. He was probably still wandering lost in the fog. With luck, he’d find the village and take shelter there. Otherwise, he was in for a long, cold, wet night.

The sound of metal on stone clanked behind her. She whirled and threw the hammer at the tall, broad man advancing from the doorway. Whoever it was dodged the hammer, leaving her an opening to the hallway.

Lifting her robe, she leapt forward, tumbling the lamp to the floor as she sped past him and flew down the corridor.

He pursued, shouting his denial.

She ran faster. She would escape him.

A jerk on her robe made her stumble. The cloth tore, and she was able to recover her balance. The stairs were in sight. She could lose him in the gloom at the bottom. She lengthened her stride.

A tremendous blow knocked the breath from her lungs and the chisel from her grasp, then brought her to her knees. The weight behind the blow laid her flat. Her brain rattled on impact with the floor, and pain burst in her left cheek.

Her hood fell over her head. Despite the ache in her pate, she struggled to rise, to breathe, but the weight on her back pressed her down. She kicked without effect at the solid limbs that surrounded her legs. Her hands scrabbled. If only she could find purchase in the exposed skin of the face that she knew rose just above her head.

Luck was with her. One hand filled with a hank of hair. The nails of her other hand sank into his neck. She would not succumb to her mother’s fate. She would slit his throat by hand, if she must.

“Arrgh!” Iron fingers closed around each of her wrists. A satisfying clump of golden locks flashed by in one of her hands as he jerked them away from his face. The relentless pressure on her back increased, forcing her to exhale what little air she had left.